Blood Lust
by Juliette Rocher
Summary: When Mycroft needs blood, his personal assistant donates. When Sherlock needs blood, he contacts Mycroft. Mycroft decides to find someone to donate for his little brother. Someone not easily scared. Someone who won't faint at the sight of blood. Cue a certain Ex-Army doctor.
1. Chapter 1

Mycroft sorted through the papers in the file on his lap while dictating new information to his secretary, Anthea, who was typing it up in a short hand of her own invention on what appeared to be a blackberry. He tutted at a note on one of the sheets, a heavily annotated room plan of the upper floors of the Bulgari Hotel.

"These room arrangements will have to change, the Chinese ambassador's bodyguard is having an affair with the Japanese ambassador. They'll need to be at least a floor away from each other. And the Spanish ambassador can't sit next to the Italian ambassador, so the seating plan for dinner will need to be completely rearranged." Mycroft looked almost crushed at this detail, the tiny flaws in an otherwise perfectly planned meeting, as much as he ever showed an expression of his true feelings. His assistant simply smiled to herself a little and pulled up the seating plans, adding to the notes she had already made. She gave the plans a quick glance and shifted through files almost too fast to read, speaking aloud to allow Mycroft to add information should he so wish.

"I can put their wives between them, but that will mean the French ambassadors wife is next to the Spanish ambassador… she doesn't speak fluent Spanish, so that won't work… if I move them both across the table they'll see it as a slight, but they can't stay there- I'll sort it for Monday." She shook her head slightly, chocolate curls springing neatly off her perfectly tailored jacket collar, and closed the file, pulling up a calendar in its place, only for a bell to ring out shrilly, echoing off the plush interior of the car and bouncing around in the enclosed space. Neither of the occupants flinched at the shriek, Mycroft simply pressing a button on his phone, silencing the noise. He closed his file and set it aside on the smooth leather seat, turning to face Anthea more fully.

Anthea saved her files, and quickly changed her phone to vibrate before putting it away. "Eddie, screen please." The driver responded quickly to her quiet instruction, pressing the button to make the opaque screen slide into place between the driver and his passengers. As the mechanism clicked into place the secretary unbuttoned the top two buttons of her cream silk blouse and moved her hair to the side, allowing her employer to pull her closer to him and bite through the scarred skin of her neck, carefully lapping up the blood that spilled from his teeth before it had a chance to stain her collar.

She settled more comfortably against him as he sucked the warm, clean blood from her throat, relaxing when he became less tense as his hunger was sated. She closed her eyes, thinking of ways to rearrange seating plans and of the lists of things she needed to do once they returned to the office. Used to the regular feeds, she no longer flinched at the feeling of blood leaving her body, ignoring the odd pull of Mycroft's sucking and the way his skin felt cold against her neck.

The politician was trying his best to restrict the amount of blood he took, but he had been away from his donor for days and was unusually hungry, so when he finally stopped taking blood, his secretary had fainted, slumped across his lap. It wasn't a new occurrence, so he just pulled the blanket from under the chair, tucked it around her as he moved her to be led more comfortably across his knee, and cleared up the bite mark on her neck with a wipe from her bag.

When the unassuming black car stopped outside the gentleman's club Mycroft favoured, she shifted into his lap more, murmuring quietly as she woke up.

"Sleeping… Mr Holmes?" She pushed off his knee to sit up, and he held his arm out to assist her.

"It's my fault, my dear, I apologise, I was hungrier than I thought. You stay here, I'll go into the meeting alone." He tucked the file he had been studying back into its bag and twitched out the wrinkles in his jacket.

She settled back as he stood and left the car, relaxing into the seat and snuggling back against the warm leather, pulling her blanket tighter around her shoulders as she watched him enter the Diogenes club. She awoke a little as a shadow in a long coat detached from the wall and followed her employer into the building, always a few steps behind, but close enough to slip through the gilded double doors before they closed. She shook her head a little, taking her blackberry out and sending a quick text to Mycroft's phone.

Your brother is following you. A

She smiled a little at the response.

Please find him a donor. MH

The only reason Sherlock ever voluntarily contacted his brother was when he needed to feed and couldn't be bothered to find a supply of his own. She took a rattling box filled with syringes and vials from beneath her seat and began to slowly extract blood for Sherlock, carefully monitoring the amount so as not to faint again. She set a reminder on her phone to get herself hooked to an IV fluids line once they were back at the office and took a ready mixed nutrient shake from her bag to help replace the fluids she was losing.

Once she had enough ready for Sherlock to collect after he was done antagonising his brother, Anthea turned her thoughts to the new problem: how to find someone who wouldn't panic at the thought of donating blood to a vampire, a subspecies which the modern world viewed with disgust and often terror. Lost in thought, she startled slightly as her phone vibrated again.

Perhaps some sort of doctor? MH


	2. Chapter 2

After many long days of research into backgrounds of London's most prestigious doctors, and more than a few frustratingly bland interviews, Anthea walked silently into her employer's office and placed a thin leather file on his desk. Putting down his pen and opening the file, Mycroft flicked through the pages and studied the photographs she had provided alongside an in-depth profile of her newest suggestion for the job they had decided to advertise. A tanned, muscled man stared out from the page. Mycroft noticed that his sandy blonde hair was beginning to turn grey in places and that his weathered face showed a lifetime of work and struggle. He closed the file and slid it back towards his waiting assistant, turning back to the file he had been adjusting when she walked in and picking up his pen. She smiled at his slight, almost non-existent nod and took the file back, replacing it with a pile of unopened envelopes and a cup of heavily sugared tea.

''You have another meeting with the Prime Minister at 12. Shall I order your dinner for half one? What would you like today?"

"Make it one, I don't have time for his self important nonsense today. And I'll have a steak." He waved a hand in her direction to dismiss her and she turned away, already sending the email that would encourage John Watson to take the generous offer she was planning to suggest.

Doctor Watson replied to my email. A

You think he will do for Sherlock? MH

I think he is the perfect donor for your brother. Perfect partner too. A

Meaning? MH

He's an adrenaline junkie with caring tendencies. Healthy enough to donate and lonely enough to accept the position. A

Pick him up. MH

"Dr Watson? You applied for the job as a personal assistant to Sherlock Holmes.'' Anthea smiled easily, knowing the image she portrayed. Weak, gentle, completely submissive. Easy to overpower, easy to outwit. A good image. One she used often with men like John Watson. Men who thought of themselves as honourable and dependable. Easy to manipulate. Easier still to control.

He took one long, slow look at her, up and down, lingering slightly on the painted red smile, the shiny black stilettos. His eyes snapped back to hers the second he realised he was taking too long. A lonely man as she had suspected, but at the same time self aware enough to know he was rude, and not caring enough to stop it. Just the type of man they were after. Rude enough to put up with Sherlock's behaviour and self aware enough that in time, he would begin to influence and control Sherlock's more socially unacceptable tendencies. He stepped heavily into the car, resting his weight on his right leg and favouring his left. Anthea filed that detail away for later scrutiny. His file showed no history of injury in that leg. Possibly a physical manifestation of post traumatic stress disorder as a result of emotional trauma during his military service.

She slid silently into the leather seat beside him, tapping on the raised partition to signal the driver into action and going back to her Blackberry. There was a conversation, but she paid it little attention, beyond giving polite responses when necessary to fool Watson into thinking she was giving him the attention he clearly craved, when the truth was she was paying him no more attention than was required to make sure he didn't reach for the unregistered service gun in his waistband. She easily rebuffed his clumsy flirting and noted the almost resigned acceptance of her refusal. Low self esteem. Could be dangerous when forced into close contact with Sherlock and his constant need to insult those around him, especially those he cared for. She made a note to inform Sherlock of the need to be cautious. When given the high stakes, she was almost sure he would listen to her advice.

As the car slowed to a halt outside the carved sandstone facade of the Diogenes, the doctor slid slightly back in his seat, straightening up as if preparing for battle. Anthea hid her smile. So far, he had behaved exactly as she expected, although if he didn't do something unexpected soon, she would have to lower her expectations of his ability to cope with Sherlock.

The peace and gravitas of the Diogenes club startled Doctor Watson into acquiescence as Anthea led the way through the oak-panelled hallways, her heels barely making a sound on the carpeted floors while his worn out shoes dragged across the fibres, loud in the silence. He took the seat she offered, declined the drink, and stayed still and rigid throughout her explanation of the supernatural world. He seemed to know some of the details, but not enough to suggest previous close contact with a vampire. Anthea thought it may be a product of the very basic training given to medical professionals to help them treat the supernatural, but it seemed to be more detailed that the training usually required.

After explaining the job to the doctor, Anthea let him alone. He seemed sceptical, but was growing more and more open to the idea as he took in the clear benefits and the chances the position would offer him. She nodded once in a silent greeting to Sherlock, waiting in an alcove, as she left the office, and he quickly slipped through the door as it shut behind her. She returned to the car to wait for the verdict.


	3. Chapter 3

Anthea told the driver to wait and settled back in her warm seat, switching on the live cctv feed from the strangers room in the Diogenes club. It showed a flickering, grainy picture of the two men at first, but she quickly typed a few pass codes to raise the quality of the image she received to their full potential. The cameras were of course completely illegal, but Sherlock was hardly going to press charges against his own brother, and even if he did, there would be no proof it was Mycroft's doing- there never was. She kicked off her heels and tucked her feet up beside her on the seat, turned her attention to the two men on the screen and watched as Sherlock prepared himself for what was sure to be a dramatic entrance- lurking in the dark corners of a room was something he had clearly picked up from his older brother.

''Dr Watson, I presume.'' Sherlock stepped out of the shadowed doorway and smirked at the little twitch of surprise as the smaller man saw him and made an aborted reach for a service weapon he no longer carried. Underneath the dark coat he had wrapped tightly around his trembling shoulders it was clear that Sherlock wasn't well- thinner than usual, with yellowing skin and hollow cheeks, he looked every inch the stereotypical vampire, except for the slight signs of his nerves and desperation. His hands were tightly clenched on the fraying cuffs of his sleeves and he was shaking all over. It was clear that they had made the right choice with Doctor John Watson- all it took was a quick glance and it was clear he knew what was going on. Anthea relaxed back into her seat, confident in her choice, and watched the two men size each other up.

''Um. Yeah? You're Sherlock Holmes- I recognise you- from your website.'' As soon as the website was mentioned Sherlock stopped in his tracks and pulled himself up to his full height. His eyes grew brighter and more focussed as he concentrated on the face of the man in front of him. The slight sneer that had marred his features cleared up and he became almost bashful- a new expression for the usually self assured detective.

''You read my website?''

''Uh, no- not normally,'' Sherlock face fell and the Doctor rushed to make amends. ''It's a bit strange. I just- the email said you were a detective? Your website has stuff on how to hide bodies.''

''How not to hide bodies. There's no point being boring about it.'' Slightly mollified, Sherlock relaxed a little, moving from being taught and upright closer to his natural posture.

''Right. Um. So, they said you're a vampire? And I'm supposed to be your donor? How does that work then? You just- bite me? Are you alright? You don't look so good-Whoa!''

Watson leapt forward to grab him as Sherlock swayed towards the wall, catching his arm and pulling him over towards a chair. Once Sherlock was seated, the doctor knelt in front of him and slowly reached for his wrist to take his pulse- but Sherlock pulled his arms back and tucked his hands up in his sleeves- shrinking away from the gentle touch.

''It's okay- I won't touch you if you don't want me to. But you nearly passed out. Can I get something for you to eat, drink? Meat, a nutrient shake, something like that?'' He looked deeper into Sherlock's eyes for a second before the detective glanced away. ''Are you high?''

''Probably. Doesn't usually last this long but I haven't eaten properly in a few days.'' Sherlock's head lolled to one side as he looked down at the man between his legs. His legs were twitching and he had pulled in on himself, hunching up and tucking as much of his long body as he could into the warm, dark folds of his coat.

His voice was clear but slower than Anthea knew it usually was, and his movements were more exaggerated than they should have been. She made a note in his file that he had found a new supplier.

''You haven't eaten? I suppose that's what I'm for. The lady- Anthea? She said I'm supposed to move in with you. You know your address?''

''She's a liar,'' Anthea smiled to herself, watching the little screen of her phone. She waited for him to tell her what he'd decided was her biggest flaw today, watching as the genius got distracted, another sign that his brain wasn't functioning as it should- he was usually focussed intently on one thing at a time, not this flighty distracted mess of ideas and worries. ''She always says she won't tell and she does. She always does. Cause she belongs to him.'' He seemed to lose his train of thought, staring at John face- reaching out to touch but pulling his thin hand back at the last moment. John shook his head and stood up, pulling the thin figure with him and supporting him as he found his balance.

''You're too high for me to even ask you to explain. Come on. Your address?''

''221B Baker street.''


	4. Chapter 4

Anthea smiled to herself, watching from the car as the two men, one tall and dark haired, one shorter and blonde, walked out of the club - they were very close together. Sherlock raised a thin hand, using the other to stop himself from wobbling by holding John's shoulder, and quickly hailed a taxi. Anthea reached for her ever present phone, sending a quick text.

Dr Watson and your brother have left the club. He's very weak. A

Take the blood to Baker street. Supervise the first feed- they'll need you. MH

She slipped the phone into a hidden inside pocket of her tailored jacket and leaned forward to tap the driver's partition with a neatly manicured red fingertip. He twisted to get the address before smoothly turning around in the busy street and setting off swiftly in the same direction as the taxi.

After making quiet small talk with Mrs Hudson for a minute or two, mainly to give the pair some time to settle in and for Doctor Watson to find his feet in the flat and get used to Sherlock's particular brand of 'tidy', Anthea walked swiftly up the stairs, knocking once on the open door before entering.

''Mr Holmes?'' She paused by the door to the kitchen, listening to the familiar sounds of a kettle being boiled. Sherlock appeared from the kitchen, thin arms full of test tubes and chemical bottles. ''Huh? John? Oh- you. Did Mycroft send you? Did you bring blood for me?'' He whirled around and dropped the glassware into a cardboard box, where it clinked and tinkled itself into silence as he shifted pieces around to make it all fit. Anthea held out the vial of blood, and he grabbed for it with both hands, pupils dilating at the sight. His eyes flashed to her neck, to the scars, before he pulled himself together and fixated back on the bright red blood in his pale hands.

''What is- is that a bottle of blood? Did you rob a blood bank?'' The doctor's eyes switched rapidly between Anthea's face and the bag of blood in Sherlock's hands.

''No. Blood bank blood has chemicals in that make it undrinkable. You're a doctor, you should know that. This is her blood.'' Sherlock explained absentmindedly as he wandered back into the kitchen to grab a cup. He thoughtlessly tipped the teabag out of Dr Watson's cup onto the counter, pouring the blood in to it and taking a long drink, almost draining the cup. His shaking stopped almost immediately and the fidgeting went back to normal levels- just holding the hem of his worn t-shirt rather than pulling at it and stretching out the thin cotton. Anthea noticed the seams of his shirt were on the outside to stop them from rubbing his skin- a sign that Sherlock was over stimulated- usually one of the signals that he was weak from lack of nutrition and didn't have the emotional resilience to put up with the slight irritation.

The doctor's eyes slammed back to Anthea at the mention of her blood, who lifted her hair to the side to more clearly reveal the pale scars on her neck, the older ones just think white scars, the fresh ones dark bruises. ''I don't mind it. Doesn't really hurt anymore.'' She smiled a little, remembering the first few times, the sharp pain before the rush of endorphins from Mycroft's fangs. John picked up on her words.

''Anymore? It hurts?'' He took a step away from Sherlock, his hand flying up to protect the unbroken skin of his neck.

Sherlock stopped in his attempts to tip the last few drops of blood out of the vial at the sound of the panic in his donor's voice.

''Only a bit. Like a scratch. An injection. And then- my- there are chemicals, I make chemicals to make you feel better about it, it'll make you tired and calm... sort of a relaxant. It's difficult to measure.'' Here he subsided into mutters, frowning down at his mug at the idea of an unknown, especially one related to his own physiology.

Anthea interrupted his thoughts as he frowned back at the empty vial again. ''You're still thirsty?'' He nodded at her a little, absently, before going back to his pacing.

''Isn't that what I'm here for?'' John looked a little unsure, but determined to go through with the job he'd been hired for. Perseverance and bravery- more characteristics to tick off on Anthea's mental list. Sherlock spun on his heel, dark curls bouncing as he fixed his gaze on the soft skin of John's neck. Anthea interrupted as he took a step forwards.

''Maybe not while he's stood up?'' The admonishment made Sherlock blink for a second, before he grabbed John's wrist, careful to avoid placing his fingers over the radial artery and the blood thrumming under the skin there, an old vampire taboo that even Mycroft ignored now. He led the way down the hall, past the bathroom, and into his bedroom. Taking a moment to move the debris of scientific equipment and random articles of clothing from his bed, he turned down the duvet and top sheet and crawled gracelessly across it, leaving room for John to sit down. Sherlock shuffled around a little on the Egyptian cotton sheets, biting at his thumb slightly to begin the flow of the numbing chemicals that would allow John to feel as little pain as possible.

Once Sherlock was settled and ready on his bed, Anthea instructed John on how best to lie to allow access to his pulsing jugular, and explained where the bite would be. She stepped to one side to allow Sherlock to curl in close to his donor, his long body hunching down over John's neck, and listened to the sharp inhale of shock that accompanied the first bite through the tanned skin.


	5. Chapter 5

Anthea left the room while Sherlock fed, listening to the soft sucking sounds while tidying the kitchen, re-boiling the kettle and helping herself to a drink of orange.- but only after she'd used litmus paper to check it really was orange juice and hadn't been used in one of Sherlock's experiments. She'd just finished wiping the surfaces down when Sherlock tapped her on the shoulder, still licking blood from his lips, dressed in a thin blue dressing gown over his usual shirt trousers and ridiculously expensive silk shirt.

''I'm done. He's shaking. Make him stop. And he tastes better than you do. Why is that?''

''Mycroft has put chemicals into my blood, a claim. It will taste bad to you- it's his mark on me. You're John's first, he'd taste odd to anyone else now. It's a claiming thing- outdated now, but left over from the times when donors like me and John were public- and needed to be claimed to prevent others from using us. I threw some things out from the fridge-''

'' -You did what?'' He almost knocked her over as he swirled past her, dressing gown flashing out around him. Now that he was distracted, Anthea went down the hall to the bedroom to see John.

He was still shaking, curled up in a ball on the bed, a blanket draped over him loosely, clearly Sherlock's inept attempt at stopping the shakes. As he heard her steps on the threadbare carpet and the creak of the floorboards beneath he tried to sit up, swaying slightly. She took a quick step into the room to grab his upper arms and steady him.

''I'm fine- I'm- fine-you're blurry.'' He tipped his head at her, his eyes slightly unfocused. She glanced over him, noting the signs of a drained donor- paler than usual, a slight sheen of sweat, quick, panted breaths.

''Yeah, yeah, ok. Maybe lie back down.'' She helped him to settle further back into the centre of the bed, and covered him a little more with the blanket. She lifted his head and tucked a pillow underneath it, making him whine a little as the healing bite mark was stretched.

''You'll get used to that feeling- it'll get better as the skin gets thinner... Right.'' She reached into her jacket pocket, pulling out a tiny packet of antibacterial wipes and wiping the bite mark clean. As the endorphins of Sherlock's saliva began to fade from his system, he began to sober up, wincing at the sting of the disinfectant. He propped himself up on the thin pillows.

''Ow. When he said hurt a little bit- that hurt. A lot.'' He poked gently at the healing bite mark, the chemicals in Sherlock's saliva healing the skin faster than usual, leaving two tender, pale, scars slightly raised against the tanned skin of his neck. Anthea smirked at his cautiousness.

''I think he just didn't want to scare you off. And he probably doesn't actually know what it feels like from our point of view. Stay here, don't stand up, I'll get you a drink. Prepare yourself for a lifetime of drinking nasty chemical energy drinks. And saline IV's. I'll send you some of the drinks Mycroft makes for me. They'll help with the dizziness- and the headaches.'' She left him looking at his new scars in Sherlock's mirror and went to get the carton of orange and a glass, ignoring the muttering and glaring coming from Sherlock as he tried to put his kitchen/laboratory back to normal. Glancing around the mess that had been restored, Anthea calculated she had another ten, fifteen minutes to get John feeling better, longer if Sherlock got distracted by an experiment.

John drank two glasses of orange, looking more and more stable as he did so, his colour returning. Finally Anthea was satisfied with his ability to sit up unaided without wobbling and let him walk the ten steps to the bathroom to look at his bruised and broken skin in the big mirror. She had almost turned to leave when she saw the colour drain from his face.

''Sherlock-'' The crash of John knocking bottles off the sink as he collapsed, along with her shout, brought Sherlock rushing out of the kitchen, a whirlwind of blue silk and tangled curls. He opened the hallway door to the bathroom to find John led on the floor, his head in Anthea's lap, her examining the livid new bruise on his forehead.

''Get off my- my- my John. He's mine. You can't have him.'' Pouting like a child looking at his favourite toy in another's hand, Sherlock satin a flounce of silk opposite Anthea, long legs crossed, and tugged John's head from Anthea's lap to his own. The stunned, weakened John just frowned a little at the rough treatment and burrowed his face into the blue silk of Sherlock's stomach. Anthea took a quick photo for Mycroft and left Sherlock half carrying John back towards the bedroom- which she suspected, as Mrs Hudson had insinuated in their earlier conversation, that the two men would be sharing.

She tidied the living room before she left, moving folders full of crime scene photos, various chemicals and chemistry equipment, notebooks, plates of half eaten food. She ignored most of the paperwork, only stopping to take a second glance at one of the folders. It contained a handful of articles, printed from websites, taken from newspapers. Each article mentioned one or more of a list of names she was very familiar with- men and women who had disappeared, leaving seemingly no trace. The police had been baffled and found no concrete leads, and so had abandoned the case. The press and media had never even caught wind of the disappearances. Sherlock had scribbled a few brief notes on the cuttings- most correct, some slightly wrong. Even so, he wasn't especially close to the correct solution, and it clearly wasn't a case he was focusing his considerable intellect on. Nothing to worry about yet.


	6. Chapter 6

Once the flat was as clean as it could be without fumigation, case notes organised and stacked neatly on the desk, Anthea let herself out of the front door, locking it securely behind her with one of the five keys on her key ring. Anthea slid across the custom leather of the unassuming black car, quickly told the driver to take her to home, after a glance at the dark sky littered with stars, and unlocked her Blackberry. She opened a text to Mycroft.

First feed complete. A

She kicked off her heels, tucking her stockinged feet up onto the chair beside her, relaxing into the warmth of the heated seat, waiting for the soft vibration that signalled an incoming text.

The donor is still alive, then? MH

Of course. Sherlock is quite taken with him. A

She attached the photograph she had taken of the pair- John's blonde head in Sherlock's lap, Sherlock gazing down at him.

As we expected. MH

Anthea smiled at the smug tone hidden behind the unassuming printed letters and tucked her phone away, allowing her eyes to slip closed as the car drove through quiet streets.

She woke up almost an hour later at a gentle tap from the driver.

''Miss. We're here.'' He smiled a little as she stretched out in the cramped interior of the car, pointing and flexing her toes. She ducked down a little to collect her shoes and wrinkled her nose at the thought of putting them back on, before deciding not to. She stepped out of the car onto the paved drive up to her house and turned back to the driver.

''Thank you, Eddie. I know it's been a long day.''

He nodded once in silent acknowledgement and she shut the door behind her and set off up the path.

She leant against her front door as she shut it behind her, sighing as she relaxed against the wood. She slid a little on the polished wooden floor as she walked towards the kitchen, and stopped for a second to reach up under her black pencil skirt and unclip her stockings, rolling them carefully down her legs and slipping them into her jacket pocket as she turned the corner into the kitchen.

Opening the glass-fronted wine cooler, she chose a bottle of strawberry flavoured rosé and took a step back, letting the door swing closed and hoisting herself up to sit on the island counter, reaching across for a glass and swinging her legs as she poured herself a glass of the expensive pink alcohol. Once her first glass was empty she poured herself another, set it down beside her, and swung her legs forwards, using the momentum to tip herself off the white marble counter.

Once she was in her bedroom she put her wine on the dressing table and dropped her shoes onto the soft white carpet, leaving them there. She emptied her pockets onto the dresser-top, laying her work things; phone, Bluetooth earpiece, and security pass, to one side, and throwing her worn stockings into the laundry basket on her way to hang her jacket on the back of a chair.

She unbuttoned her pale blouse and unzipped her skirt, letting both fall to the floor at her feet. Relaxing out of the upright posture she held herself in for work, she unclipped her bra and let that drop, adding to the pile. Taking a deep breath she stepped out of the pile of clothing and folded at the waist to gather it up, dropping it into the basket on top of her stockings as she walked past. She folded her garter belt in half and put it on the dresser, exchanging it for her glass of wine with one hand as she snagged her fluffy, tattered dressing gown with the other. Tying the belt around her waist with one glass of wine in her hand and another inside her took some manoeuvring, but she managed it. Her simple- but very expensive- earrings, necklace, and watch went in their places in their carved wooden box. She grabbed her kindle and folded herself into the armchair by the window, using the fading daylight to read as she sipped her wine. After a long day, the simple fantasy of historical romances was an easy escape.

When the digital clock at the top of her screen clicked over to 9:00, Anthea stood up, reaching up towards the ceiling to stretch out her cramped back muscles, and picked up her empty wine glass, leaving her kindle on the chair. Making her way back down the glass and oak staircase to the kitchen she glanced at the food in the fridge and the cupboards before ringing for pizza and refilling her glass for the third time. She crossed back to the fridge and took out one of the new shakes, draining the cup in a few gulps and setting it to one side.

She collected the pizza from the delivery boy- smiling at the young boy's blush but tipping generously. She took the greasy box back upstairs, setting it on her bedside table and dropping down into the soft sheets of her bed, settling back against the pile of cushions and pillows. Flipping back the lid and lifting a slice with her left hand she opened the secure text function of her phone with the right and composed a text to the only number saved there.

Goodnight, my love-Tia


	7. Chapter 7

Anthea always arrived at Mycroft's offices at precisely 6.55, in order to be ready for her boss's arrival at 7. He walked through the door exactly on time as she expected, and as she fell into step behind him, they set off through the halls leading to his office, and he began to list what he wanted from her that day.

''I'll need the Russian files ready for the meeting at one, and these copying and validating- the dates will need changing to match the timeline we agreed on.'' He handed her a stack of paper- birth certificates, marriage certificates, high school awards, even photographs. She took them easily, passing him a plate of hot toast in return. He balanced the plate on top of his files and picked up a single neat triangle of toast in his right hand, waving it around as he continued to speak.

''Then I'll want the car booking for six, what time is the reservation for?'' He took a bite of toast and pointedly glanced her way as they passed an empty desk. She made a note on her phone to trace that employee and fire them. Mycroft didn't tolerate lateness or slacking in his staff. He held them all to the same impossibly high standard he expected of himself- and her.

''Half seven.'' She flicked through to the correct email to check the booking, but she already knew the answer.

''Of course. Book the car for half past six and we'll have drinks first. Two hours for eating- I'll want to feed by ten, of course. There's a new shake in the fridge, should replace the lost nutrients faster than the one you're on now.'' He waved his half eaten slice of toast towards the mini fridge by her desk. The fridge door, unlike the others on this floor, was opaque, hiding the fact that the unassuming white drinks fridge also contained at least a pint of carefully stored blood, ready for Sherlock to visit unexpectedly and demand feeding.

Anthea stopped at the cherry wood doorway to Mycroft's personal office and watched as he activated the biometric sensor to unlock the heavy doors. She waited for him to enter, his footsteps falling silent as he stepped from wooden floorboards to thick carpet, and sit behind the high desk before she spoke.

''Mycroft.'' He turned to face her fully, focusing his considerable mental capability on her next words- often something she found off putting, but occasionally, like now, very flattering.

''What shall I wear for dinner?'' She smiled softly, the smile that was only ever for him. He swallowed and glanced at her throat, his gaze lingering where her pulse was visible, calm and steady against the thin, scarred skin.

''Something red.''

After a long day of meetings, Anthea was tired of the forced public smile she had to wear in front of the officials, ambassadors, politicians and lawmakers of Mycroft's office. Holding a polite smile and being easy, forgettable, even as she was groped, leered at, ignored. It was draining. The smile she wore for Mycroft was always easy, and she looked forward to a relaxing evening where neither of them would have to hide.

The car moved smoothly through the busy London traffic. Anthea sat alone in the warmed back seat. The car always collected her from her home first, before heading to Mycroft's city apartment, so she was used to this time alone to collect her thoughts and prepare herself for the fancy restaurant or club her employer wished to visit. It also meant that when the car pulled to a smooth stop outside Mycroft's house, she saw him before he saw her. He waited by the gate, stepping towards the curb and pausing for the driver to open the door. In the seconds before the door opened, Anthea could see his suit- a Gieves and Hawkes three piece in dark blue. The red tie and pocket square perfectly matched her blood silk dress. As he sat, Mycroft stroked a hand over her bare shoulder, tangling his fingers through the carefully styled curls covering the bite mark on her neck, smoothing over the deep red silk and the pale skin of her arm all the way down to her wrist. She turned her hand so he could rest his fingers over her pulse and they sat in silence for the ride to the restaurant, the time measured by the steady beat of her heart.

After the meal, the car took the pair back to Mycroft's home, a three floor red brick townhouse in a wide, leafy street south of the river. Anthea didn't bother to put her shoes back on, walking up the familiar front steps in her bare feet. Mycroft followed, waiting close behind her as she opened the door with her copy of his key. She crossed the wide hallway, dropping her shoes to the marble floor with a clatter that echoed loud in the silent house. She put her key back in her bag and dropped her bag with her shoes. Mycroft, behind her, turned on the lights and walked to the kitchen. She could hear him pouring a glass of scotch, the tink-tink of the ice hitting the glass as it dropped from the silver tongs, the glug of the amber liquid leaving the cut crystal bottle. She walked slowly up the stairs to the second floor, where she had a room that was ostensibly for overnight meetings or emergencies, but was more often used for nights like this- late feeds after what they called a 'working dinner'. She changed out of her dress, hanging it up and putting it to one side to be sent to her home in the morning. She shook out a pair of soft cotton sweat pants from the wardrobe, sliding them up over her smooth legs and her lace underwear. A thin grey cotton t-shirt and a quick loose plait in her hair made her ready to go back downstairs.

Mycroft hadn't changed out of his suit, but his jacket was slung over the back of a breakfast stool in the kitchen, and Anthea could see the red of his tie poking out from a pocket. When she found him in the main living room he had removed the silver-plated cufflinks from his French cuffs and rolled up his sleeves. He was slouched in a dark chair, slowly sipping at his scotch, gone pale at the top where the ice melt had watered down the alcohol. She sat next to him, balanced on the arm of the chair.

''Long day?'' She asked.

He smiled, absently, not looking at her. He patted her knee, gently, and wrapped his hand around her waist.

''I'm just tired. Did you enjoy dinner?'' He placed his glass carefully on the end table, the pale liquid almost gone. ''I thought the pastry on your tart looked a little thick.''

''Could have been better. Not too bad. Are you ready?'' He nodded up at her and tugged gently on her waist, sliding her down to sit in the narrow gap between his thigh and the arm of the chair. She swung her legs over his, settling more comfortably across his lap. He flicked her plait over her shoulder and tucked his head into the smooth curve of her neck. She tipped her head back against his shoulder as he wrapped his arm around her back to support her weight and bit.


	8. Chapter 8

They woke up tangled together- her leg tucked between his, his hand resting on her waist, tangled in her hair, hers on his shoulder, on his hip. She woke before him- she always did. She took her sweatpants from the floor and put them on before taking her phone from the bedside table and checking it while she looked for her t-shirt in the mess of bed sheets. After pulling it on she wandered around the room in the morning light collecting glasses, clothes. Tidying and straightening the room. Removing all evidence of last night's tryst. As usual.

When Mycroft woke up, the first thing he saw was her- Anthea. The woman who had given up everything, including her name, to be his. She was standing at the side of the bed, dressed for work, holding a cup of tea and a stack of files. When she saw he was awake she smiled slightly and put the tea on the nightstand, before turning and walking away towards the door. She stopped in the frame and turned back.

''Good morning, Mr Holmes. I've set your suit out. I'll be in the downstairs office when you're ready.''

She left the room and went downstairs, reading and replying to emails on her phone as she went. She helped herself to a coffee in the kitchen before moving to the office to wait for her boss.

The quiet of the early morning was shattered by the sounds of a key scraping in the front door lock and the door slamming back and hitting the wall. Recognising the voices she could hear, Anthea stood calmly in the doorway and watched as Sherlock and Dr Watson entered the house. Sherlock walked straight in to the kitchen and took the bottle of milk from the fridge. Anthea was used to this behaviour- he often took food from his brother's house instead of buying his own, despite the fact that it took almost an hour to get from Sherlock's flat to Mycroft's home, and that it would be far easier to simply buy the milk at any one of tens of shops that were within fifteen minutes walk of Baker street.

Dr Watson stood in the entrance way, silhouetted in the open doorway. When he saw Anthea he stepped forward, gently closing the door behind him and wincing at the mark in the paintwork caused by the handle.

''Sorry- I- He didn't tell me this was your house- he said it was important- Sherlock- come on.'' The taller man turned away from where he was turning the tins in the cupboard so that their labels were all just off centre and smirked.

''It's Mycroft's house- he'll be in bed still? He glanced at Anthea on his way past and left the room, walking up the stairs. He got halfway up before something seemed to occur to him and he turned slowly.

''Why are you here? Its half six, you don't start work till seven. You stayed the night- no- you stayed with him? Ugh. Do you have to be so obvious about it?''

''Sherlock- don't do this now-'' John stepped in front of Anthea and gestured for Sherlock to come back down the stairs. ''You've got the milk, you've annoyed your brother, let's just go before he realises you're here.''

''She slept with him- voluntarily, unlikely as it may seem. She actually likes him. Why do you like him- don't ask how I know, you're all so obvious. Your hair is clearly waved- you slept with it in a plait- you don't usually. So you wanted to look good for someone you were with- you wouldn't care if you didn't like him, you know how you look- you wouldn't have put more effort in if you didn't want to impress him- but you have less makeup on than usual- yet it isn't smudged or rushed- so you're confident enough to let him see you without it-So someone you're very comfortable with but still want to look good for- romantic and sexual partner.''

''Sherlock''. Mycroft appeared at the top of the stairs, frowning down at his younger brother. Dressed in a silky, deep maroon dressing gown and plain black slippers, bare legged and with his hair mussed from sleep, he was still an intimidating figure. John stepped back, towards the front door. Sherlock laughed.

''We just came for milk- we're leaving- Sherlock, come on.'' John opened the front door and turned back to look at Sherlock, who stalked towards him, slamming the door shut and pointedly glancing up and down Anthea's body.

''Do you think he loves you? He isn't capable of that.'' He sneered at his brother, who turned away, dismissing them all to return to his bedroom. Sherlock watched him go, and as soon as he was out of sight he pulled Anthea roughly towards him, ignoring John's sound of alarm.

''You hurt him and I will personally see that you are fired, do you understand? You think you're so clever, tricking him like this-he'll see through you, he always does. But I don't- I know you're lying to him-''

Anthea interrupted, her voice calm and steady in counterpoint to his rushed panic. '' Why must I be lying?''

''-I'll tell him- what?''

She smiled at his confusion. ''You said I was lying to him. Why would I lie? I have nothing to gain from this- I earn plenty, I cannot be promoted, I am already his donor. I stand to lose far more than my job should our relationship become public knowledge. Why would I lie in order to risk my reputation?''

''You have to be lying- no-one can feel things like that for us- for him. He relies on you enough without your silly little invention of emotional ties to complicate things.'' Behind Sherlock, John watched sadly as the genius tripped over his words, rambling and waving his hands around. He stepped forward and lightly touched the detective's shoulder.

''She's got it, Sherlock. Let's just go.'' He led the way out of the house.

Anthea walked slowly back up the stairs after her employer. The next few days with Mycroft would be difficult, but she thought that perhaps her lover would be more receptive to a conversation about feelings than Sherlock would be when John realised just how much of Sherlock's panic around emotions was simply fear of rejection and a lack of experience.


	9. Chapter 9

Anthea walked into the office without knocking, confident and at ease in the house she knew so well, to see Mycroft had got dressed. He was surrounded by paperwork and files, ignoring it all. His head was in his hands, elbows on the polished oak of the desktop.

''Mycroft. He's just confused about it- you know he doesn't understand this. He'll learn, John will see to that.'' She sank to her knees on the carpeted floor, resting a hand on his thigh. She tipped her head back to look up at him through the triangle of his arms. ''Come on- get ready for the day. You have a meeting at ten.'' She stood, straightening her shoulders. With one last brush of her hand over his shoulders she walked around the back of his chair and out of the room, returning to her own bedroom to collect her things.

At the office she passed on the morning's information- meetings, updates on important files, briefings on the world's affairs overnight. She left him working through a pile of papers in his office and returned to her own to compose her reports for the day and begin the arduous task of compiling new identities- the first entry on a long list of tasks. Throughout the day she found herself checking her phone for messages- usually there were one or two, but today her phone remained annoyingly silent. She found herself glancing at the wooden doors of her employer's office as though it would cause him to ignore his brother's rash words and reorient the tentative balance between them.

Mycroft sat up, leaning back in his chair to stretch the sore muscles of his back. His brother's words had made him realise just how often his assistant spent the night at his home- one or two nights a week, certainly far more than the occasional late night meeting with different time zones would require. It had become common, to ask her to book a table at some fancy restaurant and then simply to return to his home. It would have to stop- but thinking of that made him pause. He would miss her presence in his home, not just the lack of warmth in his bed, but the simpler comfort of sharing his time with someone he trusted implicitly.

Anthea was waiting when he left the office, despite the late hour.

''You should have gone home. I didn't ask you to stay.''

''But you needed me to. Why shouldn't you be happy? Your brother has his own donor now- he'll soon understand.'' She reached for his hand and held it tightly between her own, trying to get him to understand- that emotions didn't make him weak, no matter what both he and his brother thought. ''I'll see you in the morning. As always.''

She turned on her bright red heel and walked away, not looking back.

Anthea spent the next morning looking through the files Mycroft held on Sherlock, trying to find a reason for her employer's refusal to allow himself to feel in the notes he had made on his sibling. There were many small indications of Sherlock's issues with emotion- instances of him insulting others for allowing themselves to become compromised by relationships, snide remarks about the general population's lack of intellect resulting from their overabundance of complicated feelings. The further back she got, the more vivid the remarks were- until she found out why.

Sherlock had had previous donors, Anthea knew that. She hadn't been aware just how many. The list she found was long- a long table, names, then two dates, then a final column- notes. The most recent name was of course John Watson. Roughly the twenty previous names' dates were very close together- none lasting for more than a week, some not more than a day. None had notes. Before that, it seemed to have been far more complicated. They had lasted months, some years. The notes were ominous.

'2/7- Sherlock thinks he's in love.

5/7- Sherlock asked about bonding.

15/7- Donor drained. Registered as accidental overdose.'

There were five or six entries that ended in the same way- donor drained. Sherlock seemed to get attached to his donors very easily and often asked about bonding- two entries ended as failed bonding attempts- resulting in the donor being drained. So this was why Mycroft had requested someone with a history of violence- someone who would be able to fight Sherlock off- even through physical pain. She highlighted the important sections- including each time a donor left in suspicious circumstances, printed the document and stood up. Taking a deep breath and squaring her shoulders, she knocked once on the oak panelled doors and walked into Mycroft's office.

He looked startled- she suspected he hadn't actually been reading the document he was leafing through, lost in the tangled weave of his own thoughts.

''Mr Holmes. I require more information on your brother's history with donors.''

He flinched slightly at the impersonal address, she usually simply skipped calling him anything when in the office, as it was clear enough that she was speaking to him. She only ever used his surname in order to clearly delineate between work and home. He gave a tiny nod at the request for information, as though he'd expected it but wasn't looking forward to the discussion.

''Sit down. You'll have questions and it's quite a complicated enough issue as it is.'' He gestured to the plain chair opposite his desk and she sat, placing the file on the desk in front of her. He used one neatly manicured hand to spin it around to face him and flicked it open.

''Sherlock has always had difficulty retaining donors- at least, suitable ones. There were a few who took advantage- wanted the money and did the bare minimum to ensure they met the terms of their contract. Feeds but no other contact, refusing to speak to him, only meeting up at scheduled times to provide blood, not allowing him to have any extra feeds. I got rid of them.

''Then there are the ones who thought they could manage but couldn't. Usually they were desperate themselves- or thought it would be fun. Some wanted the high that comes with the reciprocal chemicals, some wanted a new experience. They didn't last long either. The longest ones are the ones you've marked. The ones who thought they were his friend- or saw him as a charity case. Either way, Sherlock finds any sort of positive attention addictive. He began to form connections- to see bonds that weren't there. He wanted to bond with them for life-''

He stopped, reminded perhaps of who he was talking to- his own life-bonded donor.

''Well- you know what that means- he asked some of them if they would- some said yes, some no- but either way, he's always been used to getting what he wants. He tried to bond- taking more blood, planning to transfuse his own back afterwards- without understanding properly what he was doing, drunk on the excess of blood. It never ended well.

''He hasn't done that for a while now.'' His voice turned quieter, softer, as he flicked through the lists of names and dates. ''I think he came to understand, incorrectly, that he'd always be alone- he's so used to it. Being supernatural and being, well, Sherlock- it hardly makes for an appealing life-partner.'' He ran his finger down the list, tapping at the final entry- Doctor John Watson. '' But now- we'll have to monitor the situation closely- and supervise a bond attempt. But this one... '' His voice trailed away, the softness vanishing as he closed the file and placed it to one side.

''We should visit them- I haven't seen them together in person yet, I might have missed something. And afterwards, we'll go for coffee.'' Although his voice stayed brusque and strong, his eyes flickered to hers as he stood up.

She smiled in response and lifted his coat from the coat stand by the door, holding it out for him as she had done so many times before.

''Yes. Coffee would be nice.''


	10. Chapter 10

The car was quiet, the silence comfortable, broken only by the tap-tap of Anthea's sharp edged nails on the keys of her phone and the rattle of pages turning as Mycroft rifled through the file on his younger brother. The driver pulled smoothly into a space a few doors down from Speedy's. Anthea slid across the seat and opened the door, standing to one side as Mycroft stepped out behind her. She followed him through the unlocked front door, past Mrs Hudson, and up the worn stairs, stepping around a pair of work boots on the landing. The living room was empty, cluttered as usual, but there were signs that someone had at least tried to tidy it up a little- piles of neatly stacked magazines on the floor instead of a jumbled heap, a sink piled high with dirty dishes instead of half eaten meals scattered around the whole flat.

Mycroft headed straight through the kitchen towards the bedroom at the back of the flat. He knocked once on the door and opened it without waiting for an answer.

There was a scramble of sheets and tanned skin amid a cloud of expletives as John covered himself up. Sherlock simply stared at his brother, naked and unashamed, his hair a tangled mess and his skin flushed from sleep, one eyebrow raised in challenge.

''You could always just text, brother mine.'' His haughty tone contrasted sharply with the acres of smooth pale skin on show. Next to him, John shook his head and spread the sheet out, trying to cover Sherlock's waist. Ignorant of his partner's blushes, Sherlock stood up and glanced absently around the room. Anthea hooked the dressing gown off the back of the door and held it open for him. He barely glanced at her as he shrugged it on and tied the belt. He led the way out of the room, brushing shoulders with his brother as he passed through the narrow doorway.

Anthea waited for her employer to leave the room before following, glancing back as she left to see John cover his face and fall back heavily into the twisted and stained sheets.

In the living room, Sherlock flopped back onto the leather sofa, letting his dressing gown fall open. Mycroft turned away and snapped over his shoulder at his brothers confident smirk.

''Sherlock Holmes, cover yourself up. No-one is impressed.''

''Your assistant there might as well see what a man's supposed to look like- can she even find yours under all the fat?'' He sneered up at them in silence for a couple of minutes until a shirt hit him in the face.

''Sherlock, just get dressed.'' John was rumpled, but dressed. He dumped the rest of the clothes on top of Sherlock, who rolled slowly off the sofa and got to his feet, dragging his bare feet back down the hallway to his bedroom.

''Well, Doctor Watson. How are things with my brother? Clearly the relationship is... progressing.''

Sherlock reappeared bouncing down the hall to sit back on the settee, almost on top of John, who simply shoved him slightly and allowed it.

''We are having good sex. We would be having more sex if you weren't here.'' Sherlock clearly delighted in horrifying his brother.

''Thank you, Sherlock. I had figured that out. You're content with your donor?''

''Of course.'' He patted absently at John's leg where it was pressed against his. The pair moved impossibly closer, squashing against each other until there was barely an inch of their sides not touching.

''And doctor Watson. You'll stay?'' Mycroft turned pointedly towards the smaller man, addressing him directly to remind him that there were in fact other people in the room.

''Oh- yeah, of course I'll stay.''

''You know my brother has a history of emotional instability-''

''Shut up, Mycroft- like you can talk-''

''I think that's enough, gentlemen.'' Anthea's calm tone cut through the loud, brash tenors of the two brothers, causing them both to turn and stare at her.

''Thank you. Doctor Watson, if you'd sign this form, please.'' She handed him a short term contract detailing his agreement to donate blood for six months time, barring any serious injury or illness. He scrawled a rough signature in the bottom corner without reading it and handed it back.

Anthea turned to her employer and nodded once. Mycroft smiled a small, calculating smile and focused his gaze on the unassuming doctor.

''I assume he's told you what to expect- attachment issues, misunderstanding simple emotional cues, no concept of personal space or privacy. He'll forget you exist some days- and refuse to let you talk to anyone else on others. He doesn't understand how relationships work- professionally or personally. He's never learnt. I simply want to make sure that you understand now- and that you are aware that you have signed your contract.'' John nodded, an amused smile on his face. Mycroft barely paused in his tirade. ''Do not come to me in a month's time to complain that he's difficult or rude. You are aware of his... particularities. And you signed anyway. There will not be a raise or any more benefits. You will have the option to renew the contract for another six months when it expires.'' The cardiganed shoulders of the army doctor began to shake. From Anthea's position by the door she couldn't see his face and feared there might be tears- something neither brother was capable of dealing with, however often they caused the response. She stepped forward, ready to deal with the problem as always, but was brought up short by Dr Watson raising his head, laughter lines etched deep on his face as he tried to hold in his amusement.

''You think you can scare me away? You think I don't already know what Sherlock's like? That I won't be able to cope? That I would ever sign something like that if there was a possibility I'd want to leave? Trust me, Mycroft Holmes. I'm not going anywhere.'' There was a core of steel beneath the soft exterior of the seemingly harmless doctor- a reminder that no matter what his current circumstances, he had been a Captain in the British army, used to his commands being obeyed without question.

Sherlock reacted to the tone of his partner's voice oddly, freezing up and shifting in his seat until he could see John's face clearly. He stared, his eyes flitting around from eyes to mouth to jaw line. John allowed it, staring back, waiting for Sherlock to puzzle through whatever he was thinking.

''You love me.'' It was loud in the quiet room. His voice was shocked, almost disbelieving.

''Sherlock- you idiot.''

John's words caused Sherlock to rear back, offended and hurt- upset until John continued.

''Of course I love you.'' He stroked a rough hand over Sherlock's chocolate curls, letting them spring back and twisting the bouncing locks around his fingers. Sherlock simply sat, allowing the touch, leaning into it, his eyes sliding closed. Anthea led the way out of the room, Mycroft following.

They met Mrs Hudson on the stairs, bringing a pile of biscuits up to her lodgers.

''Not now, Mrs Hudson- they're a little busy. I'd leave them alone for a few hours.'' Anthea placed a hand on the older woman's elbow and gently turned her away from the upstairs flat.

''Oh, I know all about that- if they'd just keep it to their bedroom it would be alright, but of course you know Sherlock- always inappropriate if he can be.'' She sounded fond, knowing, and continued to mutter to herself about boys in love as she walked back towards her kitchen door.

Mycroft opened the front door and stepped back for Anthea to pass him. She led the way to the car and settled back into the seats, already making updates to both Sherlock and John's files on her phone. The rapid clicking of her nails on the keys was interrupted by her boss' words- already moving on to a new problem.

''We'll need to send people out to visit morgues to find the right body type. Possibly hospitals- palliative care units.''

Anthea nodded, typing emails to update the office staff on the new stage of the plan. It was time to begin the final stage.


	11. Chapter 11

The computer screen was split, one side showing live cctv footage from tens of places all over the city, one side scrolling text almost too fast to read. Anthea was concentrating on the text, correcting errors, changing dates, names, ages. The video feeds were almost ignored- until her computer flagged up a recognised face on one of the screens, flashing red around the outline of the image.

She shook her head, almost switching off the programme, one she left running all the time but rarely used. Mycroft's office knew where the people they wanted to find would be, not often needing to use something as time consuming and uncertain as facial recognition software. She saw who the programme had flagged up- S. Holmes. On almost any of the other areas of the city she was watching it would have been nothing noteworthy, Sherlock and his partner often wandered the streets of London, and most of the screens were concentrated on popular areas, Trafalgar square, the Palace, the British museum. Others focused on areas that at first glance seemed plain and uninteresting- side streets, alleyways, cafes. But those feeds were showing the very elegant solution to Mycroft's current pet project- vampire/human relations. Something Sherlock should not be anywhere near. She saved the text files and closed the window, clicking over to the video feed to allow it to fill the screen, and saving the recording to a secure server. Fishing a pair of headphones out of her desk drawer, she plugged them into her computer and turned on the volume.

On the other side of London, Sherlock was standing by the entrance to a garage, arguing with Sergeant Donovan, gesticulating wildly. John was stood at his shoulder, absently leaning out of the way of his partner's flailing hands, looking mostly bemused about his presence at the crime scene. The Sergeant quickly grew bored of the fight, perhaps sensing that she wasn't going to win, and stalked off to berate one of the junior officers.

Sherlock turned towards Lestrade as he walked past and took his little black notepad straight out of his hands. Even before the detective inspector had a chance to complain about the theft, John had stepped forward, pulled it out of the taller man's hands and passed it back. Sherlock looked at him, shocked and confused about the irreverent treatment.

''Ask. Don't take people's things.'' There was steel in the smaller man's voice, and it was clear that he would not be ignored. Even despite his small size and anonymity at the crime scene, the technicians and attending officers turned to look at who was giving the commands, most looking away and trying to pretend they hadn't been staring when Sherlock glared back at them.

''Fine. Do you have an ID on the victim?''

''Mark Horton, 42. It's his garage. His wife says he was working on the truck, and it must have slipped off the jack and crushed him. She says he'd been acting odd lately, but we've not found any enemies, and there's no sign of foul play so far. ''

''And the fire?''

''The techs think the fuel tank must have split and diesel spilled- there was an accelerant, at least. And Mark was a smoker.''

Sherlock deigned to allow the crime scene officers to give him protective covers for his shoes as a concession to the charred floor and puddles of ashy slush where the fire fighters had pumped water onto the remains of a large truck and the body beneath it. Behind him, John accepted the full kit, white protective bodysuit, blue shoe protectors, even the plastic goggles. Sherlock took one look at him and turned away to hide his smile.

''If you think it's an accidental death, why did you call me?''

''His name flagged up in the system. Above my clearance but you know what higher-ups are like- I'm here to do legwork, they'll take the credit.'' The silver haired man was clearly not impressed with his superiors. Sherlock seemed to cheer up at the implication of further intrigue. The doctor at his side was very quiet, watching the white covered technicians move around the smoke blackened garage.

''Fine. I'll have a look. John, come with me. Don't talk.''

Pulling a face at Sherlock behind his back wasn't the most adult thing John had ever done, but it made him feel better about following the bossy detective into the middle of the chaos.

The crime scene was burned almost beyond recognition. There was a blackened body under the engine of an eight wheel truck, charred and twisted metal meaning that the body couldn't be removed yet. The garage was messy, tools and spare parts littering the wet floor. Flood lights had been brought in to light the scene, casting long and distorted shadows over the smoke-blackened walls. Sherlock strode through the middle of the scene, heading straight for the body. John followed more slowly, looking around him at the officers, who scurried out of their way.

As Sherlock knelt by the body, John stopped, sniffing a little. He turned to the nearest crime scene officer.

''I thought the detective inspector said the fire was started by the fuel spill?''

Behind him, Sherlock turned to stare. The policewoman checked her notes and nodded.

''Yeah, the engine is split, they reckon his cigarette fell when he got crushed and started the fire. Everything's soaked in oil or fuel, so...''

''But it's a diesel engine- this is a petrol fire. The smoke is all wrong- petrol fires burn faster. And it takes a lot of energy to start a diesel fire- it wouldn't start with a cigarette- and it wouldn't have spread as far. This is a petrol fire, started on purpose.'' The officer turned and started issuing orders for samples to be taken and tests to be run. John nodded once and turned back to Sherlock, looking surprised to be the focus of the vampire's attention.

''Sorry- did you want to tell them? I saw you look at the smoke and the engine. Why didn't you say?''

''He likes to wait and tell us everything all at once. Thinks it makes him seem smarter. Freak.'' Sergeant Donovan's voice was arch, sneering at the pair crouching among the ashes. John simply ignored her, waiting for Sherlock to answer as though there had never been an interruption. The dark haired man seemed to shrink for a second before he pulled himself together.

''You should know a lot about this case, Donovan, you clearly do a lot of mechanic work yourself- or maybe you spend so much time on your back for another reason?'' Smiling at the offended huff as she walked away, Sherlock turned back to John and grinned. ''Wanted to see if any of them would notice, I'd have told them eventually. Take a look at the body- what do you see?''

With a clinical eye, the doctor looked over the legs and torso of the burned remains.

''Definitely male, Caucasian, wide build, muscled, possible strain or injury on the neck- this is a brace.'' he pointed at a lighter patch on the neck of the body. ''About 6 foot. Crush injuries to the torso and I assume to the head, killed instantly- broken ribs, punctured lung, severed spine. What am I supposed to be looking for?''

''Nothing. Just wanted to know what you saw. I've got enough for now.'' He stood, his coat sweeping through the slurry of ashes, uncaring for the fine material. John followed more slowly, pausing to rip his protective wear off and drop it into the hazard bags by the door. By the time he'd got his coat back on and looked up, Sherlock was nowhere to be found.


	12. Chapter 12

''He always does that. Used to at least. He hasn't brought anyone to a crime scene in a while.''

''Does what?''

''Leaves. It's like he forgets you exist. You're not nearly as important to Sherlock Holmes as you think you are. No-one is. He doesn't do relationships. Or friends. So whatever you think you are, you're not. He doesn't work like that. There was this one girl- some young, pretty thing. Thought he loved her. Then a week later, he's alone again. They never last long. You'll be gone soon too.'' She looked him up and down and sneered. ''Do you even have the money for a taxi?''

''That's enough, Donovan. If you walk back to the main road you can get a taxi from there, Doctor Watson. Donovan, we're done here, go home.'' Detective Inspector Lestrade rubbed at his temples like a headache was forming- a common response to Sherlock's presence at a crime scene.

John slumped against the wall as soon as he turned the corner onto the busy main street. After a few seconds, he pulled himself together and set off walking down the dark street. Tracking his movements via CCTV, Anthea picked up her phone and sent a quick text. The town car soon pulled up beside him and he had a quick conversation with the driver before getting in, his hand slipping to the back of his waistband before he did. Anthea made a note to check the registration of his gun and make sure it was as untraceable as he thought it was, at least to anyone but Mycroft's team, then called for a car and set off for Baker street. She had a feeling that there would be some feathers to smooth.

Despite arriving at the flat only minutes after John, Anthea could already hear the argument when she walked in the front door. Mrs Hudson was standing at the bottom of the stairs, wringing her hands in a damp tea towel and staring up at the closed door.

''Mrs Hudson. I'll deal with the boys.''

''Oh, Anthea dear, I'm so glad you're here. I really thought this one would work, I like John- but the shouting...''

''It's a misunderstanding. You know what Sherlock's like. I'll sort it out, you go back in.'' She ushered the old lady back towards her kitchen and squared her shoulders before setting off up the stairs. Using her key, she silently let herself in and waited to be noticed.

Sherlock stood at the window with his back to her, clearly doing his best to ignore his flatmate and lover. John stood in front of his customary red chair, as though he'd begun the argument seated and stood to demonstrate his anger.

''If you'd even told me there'd been others- stop pretending I don't exist when we both know you'll come crawling back as soon as you get desperate-''

''Gentlemen. Both of you, sit down. Sherlock, don't argue, this isn't the time.'' Her voice was strong, and both men obeyed, Sherlock with ill grace, flopping back into his chair with a huff.

''Thank you. Now. Sherlock, why did you leave John at the crime scene?''

''I didn't think I had. I was still talking to you- I assumed you'd followed me, I didn't think to check you were there.''

Before John could voice his clear disbelief at that, Anthea jumped in to explain.

''Sherlock uses a mind palace, you'll have seen him do it.'' She mimicked the tightly controlled hand movements Sherlock used to navigate his memory aid. ''Sometimes he mixes up reality and his own version, talking to people who aren't there, ignoring those who are. He honestly didn't know you weren't with him.''

''I'm sorry, alright? I would have sworn you were here. I will try to wait for you- and I'll make sure Mycroft pays you on time- you can do that right?'' he turned to Anthea, who nodded in return and did a quick search on her phone to find the payments that had been sent to John Watson's account. They were irregular and smaller than the agreed amount, and she sent an email to her boss to make sure he was aware of the issue. She then authorised an instant payment to make up the deficit.

John was silent, staring at his friend.

''How long have you been alone? A long time?''

''Yes. I don't need your pity-''

''No- some things just make sense now. You keep saying things that make no sense- I guess you were carrying on a conversation you'd been having with me while I wasn't here.'' He shook his head a little and reached out across the table. Sherlock didn't take his hand, but allowed the brief touch to his leg without flinching.

''I've sent more money, John. There has clearly been an issue with the payments, I'll see it sorted. Do try to discuss your relationship problems more quietly next time, you're worrying Mrs Hudson.'' Anthea left, shutting the door behind her quietly, cutting off the quiet sounds of the two men shifting from their respective chairs to the sofa- somewhere more comfortable for a feed.

The next few days were quiet, Anthea working her way steadily through lists of possible donors and matching them with vampires Mycroft had found in the city, arranging meetings and payments. A boring and simple task, but one that, due to the negative response to vampirism from the wider population, could not be entrusted to anyone else in the office.

It was getting late and she was finishing up checking bank transactions for the other donors that arranged their payments through Mycroft's office, tracking the little flaws- late payments, amounts that were slightly too small, when Mycroft appeared in front of her desk.

''I haven't found it yet, sir. It's happening across all payments to donors that go through us, I'll pull the list of people who can access them.''

''Thank you. That wasn't what I wanted- Sherlock's triggered the alarms at my home. I've called a car.'' He looked worried, something Anthea wasn't used to. She grabbed her phone and locked her computer quickly, following him past the cubicle farm of the outer office and ignoring the whispers and stares from employees who had never seen their boss show any kind of emotion, especially not worry.


	13. Chapter 13

The front door had been left unlocked when they arrived, and Anthea barely slowed down to shut it on the way into the main sitting room.

''Sherlock? What happened? Is it-'' Mycroft dropped to his knees by his younger brother's side, pulling his thin hands away from the limp body of the doctor and replacing them with his own, plumper ones, slumping in relief when he found a weak pulse at the man's throat. The detective and his partner were both rumpled, dressed sloppily, Sherlock in smart black trousers and his usual long black coat, fastened over what Anthea suspected was a bare chest. John was wearing plaid pyjama bottoms and a black hoodie- one that the secretary had never seen either of the pair wearing- she guessed it was from one of the younger Holmes' disguises.

''He just passed out- I wasn't even trying to bond, I didn't take that much, and he'd eaten first- I checked like you always tell me to- I gave him a blood transfusion but he didn't wake up- then I didn't know what to do?'' His voice was higher than usual, panic causing him to revert to the scared child Mycroft remembered- this wasn't the first time he had dealt with a donor that Sherlock had taken too much from.

Anthea moved Sherlock out of the way and unlocked the blood fridge behind the large gilded mirror over the fireplace, pulling out a pint of O+ blood and linking it to the line Sherlock had already inserted. Then she pulled out a wall panel to reveal the cupboard behind it and opened the first aid kit hidden there. Taking John's blood pressure she nodded up at the two worried brothers, both standing in identical poses.

''He'll be fine once that's gone through- weak though. What happened?''

''I was feeding- we were- I wanted to try- we were having sex, and I wanted to try feeding-''

''And you got overexcited.'' Mycroft's voice was wry, clearly disapproving of his brother's antics. He shook his head and stood up. ''You'll have to lift him, I'm not putting my back out. He can go in the guest room.''

''Your pretty little donor there not using it? Given up pretending she's just your assistant, have you?''

''Don't be smart, Sherlock. It's not cute or funny, and your sidekick isn't aware enough to find you clever for it.'' Mycroft turned his back on them and strode across the hall, shutting his office door firmly behind him, leaving Anthea to deal with everything.

Careful of the blood bag Anthea was still holding over John's head, Sherlock bent and carefully lifted his donor into his arms, setting off up the stairs to the bedroom.

Sherlock fell asleep on the bed next to John at around four in the morning, leaving Anthea watching over the sleeping body of his partner. She shifted to be more comfortable in the armchair by the bed, tucking her feet up beneath her on the cushion and snuggling back into a blanket. She dozed off, waking a couple of hours later to slight movements.

''Sherlock?'' John opened his eyes slowly, blinking in the dim light. Anthea shook her head to wake up and leant forward to help him sit up.

''Sherlock's behind you- he hasn't slept for very long. You're at Mycroft's house- Sherlock brought you here when you passed out. He said you were trying something new and he got overexcited. It's alright- you've had a blood transfusion.''

The doctor settled back against the soft white pillows and closed his eyes for a second.

''Is he okay?''

''He panicked. You'll know by now how he gets when he can't be in control.''

Mycroft knocked once on the door and walked in, glancing with an almost fond expression at the sleeping form of his little brother.

''Good morning Dr Watson. I see you've recovered?''

''Yeah. Just weak and tired. I'll be fine after I eat.''

Anthea stood up, folding her blanket neatly and setting it back on the chair. She led the way to the kitchen, keeping a careful eye on John as they went down the staircase. Mycroft followed, clearly waiting impatiently for something, shifting his hands in what would be called fidgeting in a less controlled man.

''You were very prepared for this, me passing out, I mean- does- do you-''

''I am far too careful for that.'' Mycroft sounded almost offended at the possibility of harming his donor. ''Sherlock is very free with his feeding- doesn't always take the preservations he should, things like making sure you've eaten first, checking your diet is replacing what he takes. But Sherlock has done this before- overfeeding. Did it a lot, especially as a child. He's never been good at controlling his impulses. He knows to bring them here- that I'll deal with the aftermath of whatever he does. No matter what it is.''

''Vaguely threatening- feel free to lurk in dark corners if you feel the urge, you know, if we're being stereotypical.'' John's voice was hoarse and Anthea passed him a glass of water, which he took, gratefully, before tucking his hands up in the sleeves of the hoodie and sinking back in the chair. She took that as her cue to make sure Mycroft didn't go too overboard with his protective older brother routine.

''Thank you, Mycroft. I'll see to it that your brother and John get home, if you want to go in to the office- I've sent you an email with the shortlist of suspects for the fraud- and the far meeting room has been set up for interviews.''

Mycroft's attention switched rapidly to his work. He stood up, brushing invisible flecks of dust from his suit and taking his tea cup with him. He called back from partway up the stairs.

''If you'd arrange for the hospital paperwork to be sorted- personally, if you will, we can't afford any mistakes with this- especially now.'' She nodded, sending a text to book a car to take her to St Bart's hospital, and another to arrange for a car to come and collect Sherlock and John.


	14. Chapter 14

Anthea returned to work as usual, doing as she was asked and carefully monitoring the lives of both Holmes brothers and John Watson. She split her computer screens- one for working, the other segmented, showing cctv from all over London, monitoring Sherlock's activities and his investigations into the burned body.

The pair visited the morgue often- Sherlock harassing Molly Hooper and John trying his best to sooth his partner's words. Miss Hooper didn't seem to notice John at all- her feelings for Sherlock were clear, Anthea had compiled that file herself. The pathologist was clever in her own right, and helped Sherlock often- letting him use her words and her silence to bounce ideas off. With John at his side, Sherlock looked to be relying on her talents less, simply using her for access to the labs and equipment at Bart's. Anthea quietly used her power to improve Molly's day when Sherlock was exceptionally rude to her- adding a few pounds to an oyster card that was about to run out, making sure that files she needed were accessible quickly, pushing through tests and results so that she could go home early. She recognised echoes of herself in the other woman- a girl who was smart on her own, and knew it, but still needed the notice of a Holmes brother to allow her to access what she needed to be brilliant.

Anthea watched more carefully as Sherlock seemed to come closer and closer to solving the case, making sure that Mycroft was aware of all developments and breakthroughs his little brother achieved. She was getting worried- usually, Mycroft was slightly smarter than his brother- not by much, but enough to make sure that alongside his resources and power behind the scenes, he could keep things from his brother. But with John at his side and helping him to decipher the more human aspects of the case, he was progressing much faster than expected and getting far closer to the truth of the case than Mycroft wanted.

John was the one who suggested medical files as a way of identifying the body- leading to the discovery of the missing files. The pair stalled on that fact, letting Anthea hope that they might not be able to solve the case- but again, John was the catalyst.

''He's lost a lot of blood, Molly said- more than was at the crime scene. And we know he's been dead a while. Could he be- you, know like me? A donor?''

A throwaway suggestion which led to days of Sherlock thinking in silence on the couch, eating very little and demanding feeds at odd times of the night. John rang Anthea on the first day, panicked that he'd offended his partner- once reassured that this was simply Sherlock working, he just carried on with his life as usual, keeping Sherlock warm with blankets and providing tea which the detective never finished.

After three days of silence, John returned from shopping to find the flat a mess and the detective gone. He checked his phone and found a text-

Check his dental records-SH

John spent the rest of the afternoon making phone calls to dentists and doctors to find the victim's dentist. When he found the right surgery, he learned rather more than he expected.

''Sherlock?''

''Why did you ring me? I don't like phone calls.''

''Listen, Sherlock- the victim's dentistry records don't match- you know how Molly said he's missing teeth? The victim isn't- and he's been ill. The dentist said he had been talking about appointments at the hospital. Palliative care. Sherlock?- Oh piss off.'' He hung up on the dead air and saw a text from seconds earlier-

Text me whatever it is you wanted- SH

They visited the family to ask about the illness, Sherlock talking a mile a minute to the poor widow, whirling about the house looking for clues, leaving John to sit alone in the living room and drink his tea. Having learnt his lesson about phone calls, he sent Sherlock a text to get him to ask the widow about holidays they'd been on as a family. He complied- the widow said she couldn't remember where they'd been, Spain, possibly. Maybe Greece. John nodded once and smiled a grim little smile. As soon as they got into the taxi Sherlock turned and looked at him expectantly.

''The photos in the house are fake. There's one of the victim with two people who are supposed to be his parents- they both have brown eyes and he had blue. Not possible. And the holiday pictures are photo shopped or something- a man as sick as the dentist thought he was would not have been able to fly. And then the widow couldn't name one holiday they'd been on, even though there are pictures all over the house. She never even looked at them when you asked about holidays.''

Sherlock grinned and turned back to the grey view out of the window.

The pair went back to the morgue to visit the body- Sherlock going straight for the mouth to check the teeth, John checking for signs of a terminal illness. When he found none, he stepped back to stare at the whole body. Sherlock was bouncing on the balls of his feet by the door, waiting for him.

''You- you are brilliant!'' he stepped forward and wrapped his hands around John, pulling him into his chest for a hug, pressing a quick kiss to the top of his head. John stepped back when he was released, shocked at the affection from a man who sometimes forgot he existed.

''Wha-''

''They stole the identity of a body- paid a fake family to lie for them- they're covering up a murder by showing us the body. Very clever. But not enough- not this time. That thing on his neck- could it be removed? Will the skin underneath be burned or not?''

''Depends on the temperature of the fire- it might have been protected by the truck and just have been the plastic that melted. Text Molly and ask her. Why are you so interested in his neck?''

''There's not many people smart enough- and with the resources to do this. And the person who does- well- necks are the best place to feed. And he has a vested interest in covering up the murder of a donor.''

Sherlock's text to Molly was brief.

Can you remove the neck brace- send me a photo. SH

It flashed in the corner of Anthea's screen, part of the heightened surveillance Mycroft had placed on his little brother's phone. She sent it to Mycroft immediately, and slipped her shoes back on to walk through the bland corridors into Mycroft's office.

''Mr Holmes- oh, Mycroft.'' She shut and locked the door behind her and crossed the thick carpet to his side, using a single red tipped finger to lift his chin out of the cradle of his hands.

''He shouldn't have solved this- he shouldn't be capable. He's going to want to know about all of them- the others.'' His voice was quiet, resigned to the fact that his carefully constructed house of cards was tumbling down around him.


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock's text alert was loud in the early morning of the flat, and he rolled off the low couch into a crouch, stretching to his full height and walking directly over the smudged surface of the coffee table to collect his phone from the mantelpiece on his way into the bedroom. He opened the picture message as he woke his partner, shoving the lit up screen in front of John's face as soon as he opened his eyes.

''Whaa, Sherlock-'' John pushed the phone's bright screen away , batting at Sherlock's hands and tucking his face back into the pillow. ''Go away. It's too early.''

''Molly sent the picture. Look- scars. He's a donor. We have to go get Lestrade.'' He whirled away from the bed, his dressing gown flaring out behind him as he opened the doors of the wardrobe, selecting a dark suit, already matched with a shirt and hung together, a habit he had never managed to break from a childhood of staff and unreasonably high standards. John rolled over and propped himself up a little to watch him dress, smiling as Sherlock noticed him in the mirror and turned so he could see more clearly.

''Show off.''

''Voyeur.'' Sherlock shrugged into his suit jacket and turned back to the wardrobe, opening the other door to reveal John's clothes and flicking through them to select an outfit. He threw the clothes back at John and left him to get dressed, sending a text to Lestrade informing him of their breakthrough and instructing him to be in his office by ten o clock.

Anthea watched on the security cameras as Sherlock hailed a taxi and the pair set off towards Scotland yard. She followed their movements through the security guards at the door and bypassing the card scanners with a flick of his wallet, clearly having stolen a pass card from some poor unsuspecting officer. When they walked into the lift and Sherlock pressed the button for Lestrade's floor, she turned away, flicking back to the photo Sherlock had received from Molly Hooper. It clearly showed skin where the brace had been removed, a brace that should have melted if the fire had gone on for as long as planned, instead of being doused by a fire engine that happened to be passing on the way back from another fire. The skin revealed was pale, marked by thin scars and a scabbed over bite mark, clearly unhealed. Anthea checked the schedule for the day, making sure that there was nothing booked that couldn't be rearranged. It was going to be busy enough, she could tell.

They walked into the office at Scotland yard shortly after 9, Sherlock whirling through the sleepy staff clutching at mugs of coffee, leaving John behind as his stride grew longer and longer, almost running in his haste to find the Detective Inspector. John gave up on staying at his partner's side, detouring into a kitchen area to make himself a cup of tea, ignoring the looks of the officers waiting for the coffee machine to brew with the ease of a man who has long known he is capable of defending himself.

John carefully balanced his cup of tea and the coffee he'd made for Lestrade in one hand as he opened the door to the detective inspectors office. He nodded at Lestrade and put the coffee down on the cluttered desk while Sherlock talked without pause for breath, issuing instructions and reprimands alongside insults to the new Scotland yard staff and the public in general. John gave him another two minutes before he stopped him with a hand on his arm and a stern word.

''Sherlock. Stop now.''

''What? They need to learn from their mistakes-''

''I'm sure they will. Insulting them isn't going to help, though, is it? I'll find you a space and you can write up what you know and Lestrade can make sure it gets to the right people and that everything gets checked. Come on, I'm sure there's an empty desk out here- ta, Greg, I'll get his report to you by this afternoon.''

John left Sherlock at a desk, peacefully typing away, to go and get a much needed cup of tea. Minutes later he returned to a shouting match, officers standing up at their desks, waving their arms around as they yelled insults and slurs against vampires and their donors.

''Sherlock?'' The captain's voice was panicked as he searched the crowds of uniformed officers for a dark curly head. When he saw his partner's hair he ducked and pushed his way through the crowds to his side, standing at the desk he'd been working at, silent and looking overwhelmed.

''Sherlock. What happened?''

''Someone saw what I was typing- started yelling about vampires and how it's just murder with a different name- I corrected him but- there are too many people shouting and I can't think, make them stop.''

John saw the signs of overload, signs he'd come to recognise in only a few weeks- hands curled in white knuckled fists, hair ruffled where Sherlock had been running his fingers through the curls, coat tightly buttoned, shutting out the world. John sighed, look around at the chaos of the office and wrapped his arms tightly around his partner, trapping the taller man's arms at his side. Sherlock fought the hug for a second before relaxing into the embrace slumping against John's shoulder. John slowly stepped back, pulling down Sherlock's arms to hold his hands tightly.

''Right. Sherlock, listen to me. We are going to leave. Save your report and shut down the computer. I'm going to get Greg. Do you know who started this? Who was the first one to shout?''

''Officer Hind. You'll know her, she was at the first scene, saw the body. Tall woman, dark hair.''

''The one who was so sure the fire was accidental? I'll let him know. Sort the computer and meet me by the door.''

John walked back through the shouting groups, the room now split into two halves, yelling at each other over the partitions and water coolers. He opened the door to Greg's office and stuck his head through the gap.

''Greg? You can hear all this, right? Greg?''

He walked around the desk and pulled the ear bud out of the detective inspector's ear.

''There's a riot brewing out there, Greg. Can't you hear it?''

''Over what now?''

''Some officer said something to Sherlock about vamps. He argued and now its war. He's not involved anymore. Officer Hind, he said.''

''She's new, I don't know her very well. Keeps to herself. I'll book her in for a review. After I've dealt with this.'' He began to shout instructions at his staff, splitting the tension and cutting through the noise. John walked away, meeting Sherlock at the door and stepping out of the building into the busy street.


	16. Chapter 16

The computer screens were bright in the dark of the office space, their glow accompanied only by the thin sliver of yellow pooling under the heavy oak of Mycroft's door. Anthea sat alone in the outer office, the rapid tap of her computer keys and the soft click of her mouse broken only by the pause every few minutes as she took another sip of tea. The clock in the corner of her screen shone 4:36 when she took the last sip of cold tea. She rubbed her eyes and stood up, stretching her back and quickly redoing her hair in its twist. She slipped soundlessly through the heavy doors into Mycroft's office and nodded at his bleary stare. She pulled a dark plastic box from under the office sofa and rested it on her knees as she sat down. Opening the box she took out a small syringe and needle, a pair of small plastic vials, and a packet of wipes. She wiped the soft skin inside her elbow clean and screwed the first vial to the syringe to begin filling it with blood.

Once it was done she put everything she'd used to draw the blood in the incineration bin, one vial on Mycroft's desk and another in the fridge. Then she laid back on the sofa and shut her eyes.

When she woke up she was alone in the office, the lights off apart from the desk lamp. She was warm, the heating on, something Mycroft usually forgot. She found her lover waiting for her in the office kitchen, a china cup of tea in his hand and a mug waiting for her on the side. John was standing to one side, his hands wrapped around a mug of tea too. Sherlock was sipping blood through a straw from a vial that looked suspiciously like the one she had left for her employer.

''Staging an intervention?'' she quipped, taking her mug from Mycroft with a soft smile. The comment earned her a quick grin from John and blank gazes from both Holmes brothers.

''Sherlock had a little meltdown earlier, we came to find you- when you weren't at home he decided we'd come here. Some officer at the yard kicked off about vamps and 'feeders'.'' He wrinkled his nose at the slur. ''And he said he'd figured something out and he wanted to tell you first.'' He turned to his partner, who was still concentrating on his drink, slurping the last few millimetres from the vial. Mycroft pulled it out of his hands and lifted his chin, ignoring the slight flinch at the soft touch.

''What is it , Sherlock?''

''I found him, didn't I? What did you do to them?'' his voice broke and he pulled away from his brother's grip. ''You said they were safe- that they went to hospital- how many of them? How many, Mycroft?'

Mycroft dropped his gaze from his little brother's face.

''Almost all of them. Twenty three. You always go too far- and I promised I'd protect you. I always will, Sherlock. You weren't ever supposed to find out- you don't usually care. I can get you the reports.''

''Who was it? This one, who was it- it's not him- tell me it's not-''

''It's Victor, Sherlock. I'm sorry- but you drained him and the evidence has to go- I can't risk your actions causing more danger for people like us. And if it got out how easy it is to drain- there'd be riots. We must keep it contained. Who saw the files, Sherlock?''

''Not many. Officer Tate, Detective Sergeant George, Officer Hind-''

''Hind?'' Mycroft's head twisted suddenly to look at John.

''Yes? She was the one who started the whole mess. Greg Lestrade says she's new.''

''Hind works for me. Anthea- get her in. And check her access codes.''

Despite the late hour, Officer Hind didn't seem surprised by the knock at her door, following Anthea to the car without comment. The personal assistant walked the silent woman to the door of Mycroft's office and closed the door firmly. Back at her desk she signed in to the secure server and checked the undercover agent's access codes, lining each system access up to a discrepancy in the donor payments. She changed the codes and corrected the flaws. After a few long hours the door to Mycroft's office opened and he passed her a sheet of notepaper as he marched the agent out of the door and into the waiting arms of a security officer.

The paper listed instructions and a warning. The instructions were simple, checking who else Hind might have corrupted, checking nothing else had been interfered with. The warning was far more difficult- that Hind had put one of the officers in touch with a journalist.

Anthea woke early the next morning, tying her dressing gown belt firmly as she walked down the stairs. Even before she reached the newspapers on the mat she could tell it wasnt good news. The cover photo was dark, only the fanged teeth visible in the shadows beneath red drips of blood. She picked the stack of papers up, flicking through them to glance at the covers of each.

'High stakes relationships- 70% of vampire human relationships end in death'

'Down for the Count: vampire attacks on the rise'

'Vamps infiltrate the highest levels of power'

She stopped at that one and gave the article a quick scan, worried for Mycroft, but it was mostly nonsense about vampires in the royal family. She could lay that one aside- there hadn't been any royal vampires for generations, the mutation required a purer bloodline to stay strong. The rest were similar- wild accusations with no facts. One alone would be ignorable, but the very fact that there were three in her hands was cause for concern. It suggested a new wave of anti-vampire feelings which could be dangerous for both vampires and donors.

She put all three papers in her bag and took a quick shower before pulling out her favourite dress- tight and deep red. A dress for getting things done. Coupled with a pair of skyscraper louboutins and a soft curled bun she was ready to face whatever the world, and Mycroft, asked of her.


	17. Chapter 17

The next morning Anthea woke to a crash and the sharp tinkle of glass falling down hardwood stairs. She wrapped herself in her dressing gown and stepped slowly towards the door, pulling her arms in tight against her chest as the cold wind blew through the shattered window and into her room. The rock that had broken it had scratched the stairs and left chalky marks on the wall. Anthea pulled her head back into her room and sat back on the edge of her bed, pulling her phone from its charger and dialling the first speed dial. Mycroft picked up almost instantly.

''Good morning. Is there a problem?''

''Someone's thrown a rock through my window. I want security. And I'm buying a new house- ill be using your pass codes.'' She hung up on him to make absolutely certain that he knew she wasn't happy. He sometimes missed subtler clues, so she'd learnt to make sure he understood when it mattered.

She sent a quick text to John Watson, warning him of backlash from anti-vampers. He text back minutes later.

Already aware- we've got letters. Lots of letters. JW

Anthea switched her phone into work mode and organised a security team for John and Sherlock as well as vetting hers and making sure that Mycroft had arranged for his own protection. She followed up a few quick emails as well, before setting her phone to one side and going for a shower. Dressing quickly she chose plainer clothes than usual- ones she could run and fight in. When she sat before her mirror she plaited her hair tight against her scalp so it couldn't be grabbed. This was not the first time there had been worries of attack, and there was protocol.

When the security team arrived they brought with them an armoured car. Anthea lifted the Starbucks from the cup holder and took a big gulp to steady her nerves on the way to the office. By the time they'd arrived the drink was empty, but there was another waiting on her desk she she sat down. Mycroft was clearly putting some effort into cheering her up. He often used small gestures to show affection when he remembered, but two coffees plus the muffin in her in-tray were more than she usually got in a week, never mind a morning. When she found her favourite meal had been ordered for lunch- from a restaurant that she had previously been aware would deliver, alongside another drink, she decided that it was time to go and make sure Mycroft knew he was forgiven, before he bought her diamonds or something equally ridiculous.

She knocked once on the door and walked in. He was typing quickly, and usually he would continue until he reached a place to stop. However, today, the second she fit through the door he looked up at her, smiling a small smile as though he was nervous.

''Thank you for the coffees, and the muffin, and the lunch.''

''You're welcome. Are you- is everything alright?''

''Yes. Thank you- shall we have dinner later?''

''Yes. That- I will book it. And I'll get you a dress. And shoes. the ones you've been looking at.''

She raised an eyebrow at the implication he'd been looking at her search history. He looked down at his desk.

''I won't do it again- I was looking to get you more gifts.''

''Coffee is good. Not thousand pound shoes.'' She crossed the room and pressed a quick kiss to his lips. ''I was cross at the situation, not you. It's not your fault. The movers are shifting things to my new house as we speak, I'll send you the address. You can have the dress delivered and pick me up at 9.'' He nodded up at her and she offered her wrist to him. He took it gently and removed her watch and bracelet, revealing the pale scars of bite marks.

Anthea's new house was smaller than her last one- she was prepared to put up with it temporarily, but was already looking at better places to move to when the scandal of donors and vampires existing throughout society died down. Stereotypically, vampires were upper class, paying 'feeders' who had no other way of making a living, basically little more that prostitutes selling their bodies. Stemming from Jekyll and Hyde fantasies of rich men using poor women, living double lives of society dinners and late night murders. Anthea was uncomfortably aware that her relationship with Mycroft fit almost exactly into society's expectation of human/vampire interactions.

The movers had arranged everything how she had instructed them, used to her ways by now. She wandered through the rooms, moving things slightly, changing certain decorations or arrangements, familiarising herself with the layout, the windows, the doors. The movers had left a note with a photograph- the word 'Feeder' in blood red letters across the front door of her old home. They'd set the security team to check cctv and find the culprit. Anthea decided to leave them to it, not really caring who they found- it'd be some small minded teenager thinking they were brave.

She settled into the bedroom, pleased to find the movers had followed her instructions exactly, flipping the mattress and changing the bedding. She led back and lifted her phone over her head, sending a photo to Mycroft for no reason but the fact that he disliked receiving messages that had no point. Then she rolled over, set her phone in the charger and undressed, dropping her clothes into the laundry basket on her way to the bathroom. She set the bath running and took of her makeup, pulling her hair up into a messy bun to keep it dry. Naked, she walked back through the hallway to her room, into the walk-in wardrobe she'd requested and glancing through her clothes to chose a dress for dinner. The slinky black skirt and jacket set she chose was something she had worn for the office with a blouse, but buttoned over something a little less conservative it would fit nicely with her evening plans.


	18. Chapter 18

When Mycroft pulled up outside Anthea's new house she was waiting in the doorway, silhouetted by the glow from the living room. He walked slowly up the path, glancing from her head to toe.

''I thought I was buying you a dress?'' She smiled at him and shrugged, taking the garment bag from him and turning around.

''I can get changed. You can wait inside, if you want.'' She led the way back up the stairs and into the bedroom, unbuttoning her blazer to reveal the tight red corset underneath it.

''Playing to stereotypes? The poor maiden in the corset, ravished by the rich vampire?''

''I'm not feeling very ravished. Maybe you should put more effort in.'' She grinned at him, turning back to the garment bag and unzipping it. The dress inside was white, floaty and ethereal. She turned so Mycroft could unlace the corset and set it to one side. The dress was light in her hands, thin and almost transparent in places. When she looked back at Mycroft he was much closer than before, almost backing her against the bed. She smiled at him and raised an eyebrow.

''We have reservations. And roles to play. No red tie?''

The tie he wore was black against the grey of his shirt, the darkness of his clothes bringing out the ginger in his hair.

''Then get dressed. Stop parading around naked. You know I can hear your blood in your veins when we're this close?'' His gaze was wandering over her skin, jumping from pulse to pulse, her neck, her wrists, the thin skin of her elbows. She allowed it for a second longer before pulling the dress over her legs, sliding it up her body to cover herself. Costume in place she picked up the last item from the garment bag- a red ribbon.

''And what do you want me to do with this?

He took it from her hands and tapped her waist so she'd turn. Lifting her hair in one hand he gathered the curls to the base of her neck and tied the ribbon, the ends trailing over her shoulders like blood.

''Ready?'' she took the arm he offered and allowed him to lead her to the car.

The restaurant was busy, crowded with couples and families as well as business partners. A few patrons were clearly journalists, scribbling away at the gossip they could hear around them. Mycroft had a quick word with the maître d' and they were led to a table placed neatly in the middle of three journalists. The server pulled out Anthea's chair and Mycroft neatly manoeuvred himself around the table so he could push it in for her. She smiled a little and waited for the menus. She barely looked at it, already having researched the choices and made her decision. Mycroft closed his and folded his hands together on the tablecloth.

''Are we being watched?''

She smiled at him, glancing up through her lashes, the very picture of innocence and docility.

''We are. Shall we give them something to write about?''

''I'm feeling kind.'' He reached into his suit jacket and took out a cheque. He slid it across the table furtively, glancing about in tiny movements, almost unnoticeable. She picked it up, glancing at the amount and trying not to laugh. She folded it in half and slipped it into her bag. She smiled up at him, fuller and more clear, before standing, careful to let her dress billow and flow around her, to make her way to his side. She leant down and kissed his cheek, allowing him to slide his hand across her waist and up her side to the ribbon in her hair. He pulled it free, twisting his hand through her curls as he did so. She pulled away, almost reluctant to continue the game they were playing, and returned to her seat.

Mycroft twirled the ribbon around his hand, through his fingers, sinuous and tempting. He reached across the table and she rested her hand in his, giving him a quick glance to check that was what he wanted. He nodded, a tiny movement, unseen by the reporters watching them. He turned her hand over between his, letting his long fingers stroke at her pulse, beating faster at his touch. He tied the ribbon around her wrist, a perfect bow resting over the point where her racing heart gave away her impatience for the charade to end.

The meal was delicious, she was sure, but she barely ate anything, her stomach fluttering at his casual touches, something she wasn't used to but clearly something her body craved without her realising. The night passed quickly, time blurring between one gesture and the next, the meals in front of her changing almost without her notice. When the car pulled back around her skin was warm with anticipation, her dress whispering across her skin in the evening air causing almost more sensation than she could bear, light and teasing. Mycroft's arm on her hand was grounding, a solid presence cool against her skin.

She slipped into the car, sliding across the chair to let Mycroft sit next to her. Relaxed and tired, she leant against his side, shivering at the cold of his skin through the thin jacket. He reached into the storage compartment and pulled out a small blanket, the fluffy white fabric almost comedic against the black leather interior of the town car. She pulled it around her shoulders and leant back against him, pulling her hair back, using the ribbon from her wrist to tie it back. He kissed her temple in a rare show of affection as she let her head tip back against his shoulder, breathing in against the slight scratch of his teeth slicing through the skin of her neck. When he was done she took a wet wipe from the storage console and wiped her skin clean, careful of the healing scar. She stayed tucked up against Mycroft's side, warm and comfortable, almost asleep.


	19. Chapter 19

The light was dim when Anthea woke up, filtered through thin curtains and into the bedroom. She could feel that there was someone behind her, the lack of body heat meaning she was safe and calm, despite not remembering what had happened the night before, or how she'd ended up in her lover's bed.

She rolled over to face him, amused by how young and how unintimidating he looked in sleep. She left him to rest and crossed the house naked to get her clothes from her room. Which would have been fine, had Sherlock not been in the process of trying to break into Mycroft's office. She took a deep breath and decided to act as though nothing was wrong. Sherlock blinked once or twice and stared for a second before John tugged on his arm and he looked away.

''Morning, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson. Did you need something from that office?''

John took a deep breath and she saw the second he decided to just get out of the situation. Unfortunately Sherlock beat him to it, clearly trying to embarrass her and Mycroft.

''I think I left a cufflink, would you let us in? Unless Mycroft's hiding naked in there for some kind of role play. You do seem to be playing a lot of games recently.''

She walked slowly down the stairs, glancing at the pile of newspapers on the hall table, the top one showing a picture of her and Mycroft at dinner.

''Ah, so it worked then. Good. Mycroft will be pleased.'' She ignored John holding his jacket out and stepped just a little too close the Sherlock, pleased when he held his ground, refusing to move back.

''You'll have to move so I can reach the lock.''

''Where are you hiding the keys- sorry.''

Both Sherlock and Anthea turned to look at John, who blushed at what had clearly been an unintended outburst.

''It's a biometric lock.'' She twisted the doorknob, waiting for the warmth of the scan to pass over her fingertips before she pushed it open. She glanced around the room, checking there was nothing too dangerous for Sherlock to see. Once she was confident there was nothing he didn't already know, she let both men in, carefully not looking back at where Mycroft was watching them through the cracked door of his bedroom.

Sherlock looked around for a second, his eyes cataloguing everything in the room. He made some small pretence at looking for his missing cufflink, but gave up pretty quick. Mycroft entered the room silently, standing just inside the door in his dressing gown. He raised an eyebrow at Anthea's state of undress and she gave him a quick smile, which caught John's attention from where he had been very studiously watching his partner crawl around the floor.

''Mycroft. Uh- Sherlock thought maybe he dropped a cufflink.'' He gestured awkwardly at the detective, who rolled over and sat up, uncaring of his suit.

''Is this a new dress code for your minions, brother dear? Naked and in love?''

''Not all of my 'minions', no. That would cause a scandal in parliament, and no-one wants to see the prime minister naked.'' He dipped a hand into his dressing gown pocket and handed a folded slip of paper to Anthea.

''You left this upstairs. I thought I'd better return it.''

She unfolded the cheque from the night before, holding it so that Sherlock could clearly see the ridiculously large amount over her shoulder before folding it back up. Mycroft raised a single eyebrow at his brother, interrupting the silent conversation he was trying to have with a very confused Dr Watson.

''Found whatever you were looking for?''

''Not yet. Now that I think about it, I might have lost it before we came here. Come, John, we have places to be. Such a surprise seeing you here. Do try not to break his heart. He's already at risk of heart attacks due to his lack of control over his diet.'' He led the way out of the room, stepping around Anthea with a quick glance.

''You're looking pale. Is my brother being greedy? More lack of control than usual then.''

''Its exhaustion, actually. We've been quite busy.'' Anthea hid her smile inside at the falter in both John and Sherlock's step, and closed the door behind them, waiting for the sound of the front door closing before she turned back to Mycroft.

''And what would you have me buy with this?'' she waved the cheque at him.

''I thought a house. Once this is all done with, you'll need somewhere better than your current address.'' He took the cheque back from her, his fingers brushing hers.

''It's already in your bank. I'll meet you at the door in an hour, if you'd call the car?''

She straightened her back, pulling together the persona she wore for work despite her lack of clothing.

''Will that be all, Mr Holmes?''

''Thank you.'' He sat behind his desk, already looking through the papers and files stacked there.

She met him at the door, black skirt and white shirt hiding her body from his gaze once more. She handed him the briefcase for the day and a flask of tea for the journey and opened the door for him o lead the way to the car.

Her phone held a long list of emails and messages that required responses, ranging from press offices asking for her advice on the many articles that had run that morning, to reporters who wanted a comment for their next piece, to the usual political machinations that required steering in a particular direction. She scrolled through them, getting rid of the reporters and journalists, sending a blanket press statement to the press and publicity teams, and reorganising the political news and events by importance, forwarding the ones that could be dealt with by someone with less demands on their time than Mycroft and his primary team. She finished the journey by searching through cctv of Sherlock's actions over the past few days, sending John Watson a quick text to tell him that Sherlock's cufflink was most likely still at the Chinese they'd eaten at two days before.


	20. Chapter 20

After almost another year of carefully orchestrated publicity stunt dates, meetings with sexist, prejudiced bigots, and secrets, made up for by surprise coffees, randomly winning competitions she hadn't entered, and nights spent hiding from the rest of the world in Mycroft's townhouse, Anthea decided she was done playing the assistant.

She walked into the office the next morning and went straight to his door, opening it without knocking and marching to his desk. He looked up at once, almost panicked.

''Anthea? Is everything alright?''

''No. I've decided something.''

''What?''

''I'm going to marry you. I'm tired of waiting and I know you'll have it all planned out, and it'll change things in the public perception scheme, but-''

''Yes.''

''What?'' Now it was her turn to look stunned.

''I said yes. I'll marry you. Today?''

''Today? No- not today- I have plans for it.''

''Of course you do. He laughed and stood up, lifting her slightly off the floor as he hugged her. ''Do you have a ring? Should I choose one?''

''I've picked it out, its waiting at the jewellers. I'll send the driver the address, for when you have time.''

''How about this afternoon? I feel like taking a day off.''

His true smile was something even Anthea saw only rarely, creasing his face in new ways, smoothing out frown lines and brightening his eyes. She tilted her head at him, smiling back.

They walked out of the office on the evening of their wedding hand in hand, followed by whispers like shadows, stares and a single peal of laughter, quickly stifled. Despite the fact that the wedding had been a closely guarded secret it was difficult to keep the change in their relationship from the people who saw them most. However, it had been very easy to keep the wedding a secret from two people in particular.

John was tired. A long day at a new doctor's, dealing with crying children and worried mothers had worn him out enough, and returning home to find Sherlock's latest experiment had involved the use of both the shower and the bed, and had rendered both unusable, had been enough for one day. Wandering aimlessly through London's darkening streets he relied on his frown and the still strong frame of his silhouette to keep any potential threats away, not caring enough to avoid dangerous areas or empty alleyways.

Sherlock wallowed in the silent flat after John left, growing increasingly fretful when his partner didn't return until a tangled mix of regret and fear propelled him from his recline on the sofa and out into the streets. Walking fast and allowing a little of his vampiric strength push him to keep going as he combed the streets looking for his partner. He was almost relieved when the black car pulled smoothly to a halt beside him, coat flaring as he turned to berate the suited man stepping out of the back seat.

''What's taken you so long? Do you have-''

His voice cut off suddenly in the cold air, echoing eerily from the damp stone walls of the street for a second before fading like the stain of breath on a mirror.

John turned at the sound of a car in the quiet street, aware of his surroundings in a way his army training had never allowed him to forget. He relaxed marginally when he saw the large black car slowly following him down the street. When it stopped he turned to face it, opening his mouth to tell them he was fine. Before the sound escaped his throat he was falling, a tiny white dart piercing his throat in a crude imitation of a vampire bite.

The pair woke up in an empty room. Instead of the cold, empty basement they expected, it was an opulent gilded reception room, lacking in restraints or torture equipment or anything else that would indicate their captor's intent.

''Sherlock? Any ideas would be very helpful here.''

''So would your supposed military skills.'' He walked towards the door, quick movements of his hands twitching his jacket back into place. Just as he reached the door it opened, revealing an unassuming man carrying two suits in plastic covers.

''Please put these on.'' He put them down on a gilded table and turned on his heel to leave.

''Where are we. What do you want?''

At Sherlock's words he turned back over his shoulder.

''Don't worry Mr Holmes. It'll all be clear soon.'' With an unreadable smile he was gone, the door locking behind him.

'Well that made everything better. Do we get changed?''

Sherlock was rifling through the suits, checking seams and lengths.

''It's safe. Get changed, there's no harm in it.'' He began taking off his shirt, passing the smaller suit to John and motioning for him to undress.

Sitting together on the couch, Sherlock tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair with one hand and holding John's sleeve with the other, the pair looked up when they heard the door opening for the first time in almost two hours.

''Mycroft- what's going on?'' Sherlock stood up, stepping towards his brother before halting suddenly, almost falling forward with the momentum. '' You look ridiculous. What are you wearing?''

''It's my wedding day. I believe it is traditional to wear a suit.''

''Who would marry you?''

''The secretary- sorry, personal assistant? What's her name?''

''Good try.'' Anthea appeared in the doorway behind Mycroft in a full length white dress, a red ribbon a slash of colour across her waist. She smoothed a hand across Mycroft's shoulders, then stepped past him to face him, pulling his jacket straight and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.

''I thought it was tradition for the bride to be hidden till the church?'' Sherlock looked the bride in question up and down, his gaze lingering on the red sash.

''We're sharing a car, that would be difficult.''

''Can't borrow one from the queen?''

''Boys. Please stop arguing. I didn't know you were engaged.'' John stepped between the bickering brothers to talk to Anthea.

''It's been planned for a very long time. And I got tired of waiting for it to fit into Mycroft's schedule. Speaking of-'' she tapped Mycroft once on the arm, interrupting his silent argument with his brother. ''it's almost time.''

She led the way out of the room, Mycroft walking close behind her. The detective and his partner followed them after a second.

''They kidnapped us to invite us to their wedding?''

''Remind me to tell you about Mycroft's first girlfriend. There was a lawsuit involved.''

''At least they both seem happy.''

''Smile for them, Sherlock, they're getting married.'' Turning to his donor, Sherlock smiled, sickeningly sweet for a second before he let his fangs show.

''Happy now?''

''Yes.''


End file.
